


The Bloody Flame

by perseide



Series: Doom to Dance [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, I'm still getting used to it, This is my first fic so yknow, Will add more tags when this progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perseide/pseuds/perseide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story follows Aegon I Targaryen, Visenya Targaryen, and Rhaenys Targaryen's conquest of Westeros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Silence reigned over the narrow streets that weaved through the golden pavillions of the ancient city. It swept over the children in their beds, sleeping soundly with their silver hair draped over the pillows. It cantered across the ornate rooftops and over the massive and twisted tower of ivory that stood strong over its people. The night was all smoke and ink, dappled with myriads of stars in the coruscated sky. All was still.

It was not until the early hours of the morning that the heavens began to crack and fume, but when they did, it was too late to escape. The great black mountains spat fire down from the distant horizon. First, the temples burned. Then it was the houses, and the screaming people flocked to the tower for help from their consul. 

"We are doomed," said a gnarled old soothsayer. "You see? I saw it in the flames. I saw the land break and smolder. I saw the people die."

The flames made their way to the tower. Increasingly panicked and agitated, the citizens of Old Valyria pounded on the door, weeping and begging for safety. Through the thick smoke that had settled in the city when the ground erupted into immense cracks, some of them noticed the enormous shadows of dragons slipping away, flying east to Asshai where the magic was still strong. And the smell of flesh- the smell of it burning away, melting off bone- filled the morning with death and ash. 

When the sun had finished its long trek to the center of the sky, it lit up the ruins of the greatest empire that ever was, and all of its scions with it.

Or so it seemed.


	2. Rhaenys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys reacts to her betrothal.

It was dusk when she managed to excuse herself from her family’s tedious affairs and slip into the gardens of Dragonstone. She was glad of the darkness, how her deep blue gown blended into the air and how the wind and waves smashed upon the rocks to muffle her rugged breaths. Her brother and sister were bickering loudly in the hall- or rather had been when she’d slipped off. In the gardens, though, she could cut through the silence with a dagger. She could sit down on an alabaster bench and inhale the sweet perfume exuded by the scarlet roses. She could ponder the day’s events, ponder her betrothal to Aegon. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was no child. She had been raised on the island fortress of Dragonstone, her family existing as the last link to the legendary Valyrian empire. Her father was a just man- stern, but loving. Her mother was sweet and docile as a lamb, albeit prone to seizures. Rhaenys had learned, along with Visenya and Aegon, how to cope with their mother’s frailty for as long as she could remember. And for as long as she could remember, she knew she would one day wed her brother.

Somehow it had not seemed so real when they were children.

The quiet that had smothered reality and let her mind segue into reverie was broken by Meraxes shrieking in the pit. She wished desperately to go riding, to occupy herself somehow, to get away from Dragonstone. 

“You left quickly,” said a low voice behind her, and Rhaenys startled. Turning, she noticed Visenya standing beneath a tree, her long silver braid dappled in moonlight. 

“You would, too, had Father asked you to perform your duty in a sennight,” replied Rhaenys lugubrely. 

“It will happen to me as well, sweet sister.”

“With Orys, perhaps.”

Visenya studied her intently. Rhaenys was used to this behavior from her sister. While Rhaenys practiced harp and brought in minstrels from across the Narrow Sea to perform poetry in song in front of the court, Visenya played with blades in the garden and ran wild with Orys Baratheon, their bastard brother. It was almost a nuisance. She performed her duty and was discreet about her private life, at least. Visenya seemed to think no rule applied to her. She was shameless and harsh; beautiful in the same way that a hurricane was when it hit the shore. Sometimes Rhaenys envied her.

“Aegon will make a good husband,” Visenya said at last. “You have been entertaining soldiers for far too long.”

Rhaenys blushed fiercely. “I do not entertain soldiers,” she lied.

“No? Well, they certainly entertain you.”

“In the same way Orys entertains you.”

Visenya laughed. “The difference between us is that I don't pretend I'm still a maid. And you will soon have a brother to warm your bed, sister. Do not presume to judge me for doing the same.”

“It is my duty to marry Aegon,” she said dully. Duty? She was a descendent of Valyria, a temptress and a queen. Why should she do her duty when she was built of the same fabric as dreams and magic?

“And my choice to bed Orys.”

Visenya Targaryen whirled around and marched back to the castle in long strides. 

For a long time after she left, Rhaenys watched the gate helplessly. She felt as though a void had opened in her soul, cavernous and dusty. There was no one she could confide in. How could she open her mouth in her father’s presence and say that she feared no dragon, but feared to love Aegon? Rhaenys was petrified at the very idea of staying sedentary, confined to be with a single man whom she did not love. Aegon was kind and courageous, but he lacked assurance. And Rhaenys dreamt of a true and honorable knight who would let her protect herself from her own idealistic views. She sat and pondered her fate until tears streaked her face.

She stayed in the gardens until the sea was gilded from first light, and the edges of the sky were dipped in soft hues of violet and pallid pink. 

\-----------------------------------  

Rhaenys did not talk to her family until the eve of the wedding. Aegon was clumsy and awkward about the entire ordeal, occasionally rapping sharply against her chamber’s door to ask questions she never answered. Later she would find bouquets of wildflowers lying on the threshold, or a piece of pie left over from dinner. 

Finally, her mother came to the door demanding to speak to her. Rhaenys unbarred for her. She loved her mother. Her mother was the only person who understood what it was like to be given away like some gift horse. 

Velena Velaryon was draped in pearls and light white silks from her neck down to her dainty bronze sandals. She had a certain fierceness to her violet eyes that accentuated her beauty while making it almost fearsome, in a sense, to behold. She, like Rhaenys, wore her silver hair like an undulating cascade down her slender back. 

Velena swept into Rhaenys’ quarters and whirled around to face her daughter. “You have not supped with us since your lord father announced your engagement.” 

“I have not been hungry,” said Rhaenys softly.

“You’re not yourself anymore. You have receded into your skin like a scared animal.”

“I am to be married on the morrow.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I will be a good wife to Aegon.”

Velena threw open the lavishly embroidered curtains and stared out at the sea. “Meraxes is lonely,” she said swiftly. “I hear her sometimes, singing. I know it’s her. Vhagar and Balerion scream like warmongers, but your dragon is like you. She sings when she is upset.”

Rhaenys sat on the bed and waited for her mother to continue.

“You have always buried your sorrows into some medium, sweetling. Sometimes it is the songs. Sometimes it is the dragon. But tomorrow it must be another’s heart. You know Aegon. He would never hurt you. When I wed Aerion, I had no idea of his countenance. Of course, now I realize that any worries I had were entirely pointless. But I have been a girl frightened on the eve of her wedding before, and I can understand.”

“Mother,” said Rhaenys, and her voice cracked. “Mother, can I teach my own heart to feel love?”

Velena sat down next to her daughter and held her tightly. “Yes, darling. And it will come easily.”

“You could have married Aegon to Visenya.”

“You are more gentle than Visenya. You are both strong women, but in different ways.” Velena smiled. “This wedding isn’t so much about marriage, Rhaenys. It is about destiny. You are Targaryen. You were born to extend the reach of your legacy beyond the shores of Dragonstone.”

“You want Aegon to build a new empire.”

“I want all of my children to build a new empire. Where the sun sets, the land is rich and abundant. The people are waiting to be united. The Rhoynar in their vermilion deserts, their tattered cities of sand and serpents. The Andals in their towns, their luxurious castles built on rock and forest. The First Men, lurking beneath the weirwood’s bloody leaves and worshipping the gods of the ancient Forest. And you, Rhaenys- you shall be queen to them all.”


	3. Aegon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys and Aegon wed- and bed. 
> 
> Smut warning.

Clad in his best silvers and a collar of glistening rubies, Aegon Targaryen waited at the end of the hall for his bride. He was nervous- Rhaenys had not spoken to him since the news of their engagement had made their way through the castle. He could feel that she was upset. Her sadness was practically palpable, her silence thicker than the lumpy porridge Old Beth served in the kitchens. 

"You are trembling," said Aerion Targaryen to his son. "Don't worry."

How could he stand silent like a pillar of blank mind, blank soul? Aerion had come to him the night previous to speak of his responsibility as a husband. Aegon had humored him listlessly, thinking that Velena must have done the same with Rhaenys. He scoured the gathered crowd, their beaming faces, their mother's sweet composure. Visenya stuck out like a sore thumb with her constant scowl. She had been forced to wear a silk gown for the ceremony, and she had not taken to it as enthusiastically as Velena must have hoped.

As the remnants of the sprawling empire of Valyria, the Targaryens had a certain duty. Aegon felt as though their civilization's legacy had fallen unto him, the only heir to Dragonstone. It was a queer feeling. He had always been a rather docile boy. He knew, of course, when to be assured and firm in his beliefs, but it had always been Orys with the temperament of a conqueror. Sometimes he wished his sister Visenya would rule in his stead, relieve him of the enormous responsibility to restore Valyria to its prosperity. But it had been Aegon that was born to be king. 

Aerion slipped off down the center aisle to fetch Rhaenys and bring her forth. Aegon barely noticed- he had gone numb, frozen, into a state of cold paralysis. He listened to the crippled priest recite the names of Valyria's gods- Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes, Tessarion, Vermithor. And then he watched as Rhaenys Targaryen lifted herself from the shadows in the back of the hall like a ghost in the fog, tall and lean and silver. 

She looks beautiful, he thought.

Her hair had been wound up into three long tresses, each overlapping the other in a mad heat to the small of her back. She wore a lilac chiffon gown, embroidered at the hem with threads of pearly white. Velena had powdered Rhaenys' delicate cheekbones with a tiny bit of rose, and she glowed like an ember as a result.

His bride. His queen. He felt his heart leap with emotion and desire.

Rhaenys took his hands in hers and they entwined fingers. She looked strong, a true dragon. He could almost see Meraxes in her today, in the minuscule flame dancing in her purple eyes. Aegon Targaryen was proud to marry such a woman. 

They said their vows in High Valyrian, as was their mother tongue. He leaned down and kissed her after, chastely, just a flutter of lips as soft as the wing of a butterfly. Many men had coveted Rhaenys over the years, and she had refused them all. He was pleased to see the envy stain their faces today. Pleased that she would give him her maidenhead tonight, that none of them would ever receive it in his stead. He searched the crowd for Orys and found him whispering in Visenya's ear. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her long rope of hair slung over her shoulders carelessly.

“Are you nervous?” Rhaenys asked him softly.

“I was,” he admitted. “But you- you walked in like a queen, with your head held high. You have no fear, and I must not either.”

She smiled shyly. “The feast- Mother said we were to walk there together at the head of the crowd.”

Aegon nodded. They made their way back to the dining hall, their sweaty palms still grasping at each other hotly. 

Orys caught up to them rapidly. “Congratulations, brother. Sister.”

Rhaenys smiled her gentle smile. “Thank you, dear brother.” She glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Where is Visenya?”

“She went to change her gown.”

“How fitting.”

“Visenya will do as she pleases. She always has,” Aegon intervened. Any conversation that included Rhaenys and Visenya quickly turned into a bitter argument. Visenya always said what she felt, but Rhaenys played coolly and in a passive-aggressive fashion that terrified Aegon. Visenya was so bold one could always expect to hear something rudely honest escape her mouth. With Rhaenys, the blows were swift and subtle.

“Shall we feast?” Orys asked quickly, and Aegon smiled gratefully at him.

 

Dinner was a blur of noises and music and laughter. He danced with his bride and his mother, pausing to dance with some of the common women and Visenya herself. Aegon had four cups of wine, Orys whispering all the best things to do in bed in his ear low enough so that Rhaenys would not hear. 

“Stop, stop!” exclaimed Aegon, but his protests were interrupted by his own raucous laughter. “You cannot mean it. She will not like it.”

“A maid is a maid,” Orys replied easily. “They are all different, Aegon, but they react the same when they like it. I've bedded half the maids on Dragonstone, I can tell you.”

“It's time for the bedding!” yelled Erich, the Targaryen steward.

They came from all sides, the elated people grasping at whatever fabric they could reach on the newlyweds. Aegon felt himself being lifted by a crowd of giggling girls, each ripping off different bits of his tunic. He was thankful then for the fumes of alcohol that had settled comfortably in his veins. 

He was thrown onto the bed amidst cheering and clapping and broad smiles, Rhaenys following with a shriek. 

“Close the door!” Aegon yelled, and they obliged. He heard their footsteps pounding away from the bedchamber until they were left alone in the quiet. 

“It's dark,” murmured Rhaenys. She rushed to the edge of the room and returned with a tiny dancing candle. For a moment she stood beside the bed awkwardly, holding it in her tiny hands like a lifeline.

“Leave it on the table,” said Aegon. Once the candle had been put down, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her neck. First it was slow and sensual. Then his mouth roved north to her jaw, to her cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. She drew her legs around his torso and replied with enthusiasm, a mad fury of lust. 

“Lay me down,” whispered Rhaenys. She was breathing hard already.

Aegon flung her down into the fluffy mattress and unlaced his britches. She watched him, any sign of shyness completely vanished. The blushing maid was hidden, locked away. Today, Rhaenys Targaryen shamelessly watched as the last of Aegon's clothes fell to the ground.

He knew what was coming next, and he could not tear his eyes away. Rhaenys peeled her smallclothes from her breasts, and his breath caught. He wanted to kiss her, touch her. He ached to be inside her. Slowly, in the same way that Orys had instructed him to do mere moments before at dinner, Aegon pulled his head into her curves and began sucking and kissing her nipples. Her back arched; her body propulsed itself into his mouth. With an increasing sense of urgency Aegon began to tug at her nipples with his teeth. Rhaenys moaned. 

"How do you feel?" he asked suddenly, remembering that he must always be aware of whether or not she felt comfortable.

"Don't stop," she gasped. "Please, don't stop."

He dug into his task delightedly, swooping over her toned body, removing the fabric that hid the most intimate part of her and kissing her there, too. His cock was hard, throbbing like mad. Aegon looked up at her, waiting for approbation.

Rhaenys' head gave a small jerk, indicating her consent. He positioned himself over her entrance and, with a loud gasp, filled her in one swift thrust. Rhaenys bucked up, her pelvis crashing against his in a magnificent haze of lust. He had never felt this before. He went faster and faster, listening to her breathe and moan his name. Aegon had never truly been grateful for his name until he heard it escape her lips in fluid elation. At last he finished, panting. For a long time after he rested his head on her chest, feeling her heartbeat slow again, her fingers running through his hair, his manhood growing soft inside her. He finally extracted himself from her body and lay down in the bed next to her.

Sleep came easily to them both that night. Aegon had never felt like more of a king than he had his first night in Rhaenys' bed.


	4. Visenya

The feast was a dour occasion, she decided. Aegon and Orys were muttering to each other, Rhaenys looked emotionless, and Aerion was studying them as though his very life depended on it. She caught Orys’ eye and smirked. One day, no doubt, Velena and Aerion would scheme to marry her off to Orys- despite her being older than Rhaenys. It was easier to manipulate her little sister to do the family’s bidding. She was the epitome of servitude. Visenya could feel her mouth twist with mirth.

“My lady,” a Velaryon cousin said gravely. “Would you like to dance?”

Visenya Targaryen lifted a brow and stared levelly at him. “I don’t dance, my lord. Everyone on Dragonstone knows.”

“You will have to when you marry,” he answered.

She threw her silver head back and laughed obnoxiously. It was a peculiar sight to those seated around her- she was one of those women who looked bizarre and out of place when they laughed, a harsh staccato bark. 

The cousin, now shifting uncomfortably, said: “By your leave, lady.”

Visenya waved her slender hands through the air. “Go, go.” She heard someone scream for the bedding, and there was a deafening cheer. Rhaenys’ apathy had segued into something quite like terror, and for a second- just a second- Visenya pitied her. Aegon had not noticed: he looked pleased and excited at the prospect of taking his sister’s “maidenhead.” She smiled at that. Only her brother seemed unaware of Rhaenys’ constant flirtation with the knights and the bards that came to Dragonstone, her surreptitious drinking of moon tea from the maester. 

Most of the women in the crowd flocked to the newlyweds with glee and greed scrawled upon their anxious faces, but Visenya stalked out of the hall without a look back.

 

She rode Vhagar to the east. Her father had long ago warned her to avoid the smoking ruins of Valyria, and so she kept going straight over the Dothraki Sea rather than skirting south from Pentos. The land was cloaked in darkness, and her thighs ached over Vhagar’s leathery scales. She could feel her braid whip through the wind like the stroke of a lash. Visenya kept staring downward, searching for the golden rooftop of the old maegi’s home. 

Orys’ face swam into her mind. She pushed it away, trying to focus on Vhagar’s wings slicing through the night. 

Visenya had worked hard to keep her whereabouts a secret when she disappeared to the village of the Lhazareen. Over a number of years she’d grown swifter, her vanishing act altogether more remarkable, practically unnoticeable when she tried. The maegi had a sort of fierce pride when it came to training a dragon rider- she and Visenya had developed a close bond, albeit a bond scarred by magic. The maegi did not have to ask to know. She infiltrated the crevasses of Visenya's mind, scouring the memories like a ravenous predator. The maegi looked old and weak, but Visenya knew better. The training had opened her to the same magic. 

"What is your name?" she had asked the maegi once, early in the training. The villagers simply referred to the old witch as "Maegi", and had directed her to there using mostly hand gestures. The Lhazar tongue was unfamiliar to Visenya.

"When you see my name by looking through my mind," the maegi had answered, "then you are a sorceress. Then, and not before."

Vhagar screamed. She stroked his neck to soothe him, and began the descent to the village of Kosrak. It was not so much a village as it was a city- located far below the slanted northern point of the Skahazadhan, near the Red Waste. The Lhazareen would no doubt notice her arrival- the Lamb Men, as the Dothraki called them, ofttimes stayed awake to praise the Great Shepard. And it was not so late yet.

They landed in the expanse located at the heart of the city.

"I want to see the maegi," called Visenya Targaryen to the various people who'd gathered around Vhagar's enormous sombre shadow.

"She is in the hut," said a child in broken Common Tongue.

"Stay," she told Vhagar abruptly.

As the child had predicted, the night was parting around the open-roofed hut the Lhazareen maegi had claimed for her own. The walls were crumbling at the edges, stone upon stone perched precariously atop the other in the style of a Slaver's pyramid. Visenya Targaryen was used to coming here to practice the elusive dark arts. Rhaenys and Aegon, of course, were ever oblivious to her ventures, and she'd only bothered with telling Orys. Orys didn't have a mount, anyway. He would not impose by attempting to follow.

"The lady is back," croaked the maegi, fumbling out with her gnarled hands twisting over the head of her serpentine walking stick.

"Aye," said Visenya. "I would have returned sooner, but..."

"But your sister has wed Aegon."

Visenya, no longer astounded by the old woman's omniscient statements and vague prophecies, simply acquiesced. "She has."

"You are next, then."

"With Orys," she cut in. Visenya was uninterested in the maegi's various claims, that she would meet the same fate as Rhaenys, give birth to a monster, build a legacy by flying a child over snow-capped motifs carved into silent stone moutains.

The maegi grinned eerily, revealing missing teeth and a raging gum infection. Rhaenys would have flinched at less, but Visenya Targaryen was the iron her sister was not, forged by a fire none could contain.

"You are pensive," the Lhazareen said.

"What am I thinking about?"

"Rhaenys."

"Rhaenys is a babe in arms compared to all I've done and seen."

"You are hostile toward your family."

"Not my brother."

"He is not your brother. He is a bastard."

Visenya flared. "He was raised with us. My father, whatever else his faults may be, saw to it that Orys had a home."

"You will not wed him. He is impure. He is the son of a kitchen wench by adultery." 

Every visit, the same argument. She was so weary of it. She could not understand the maegi's persistence on the subject of Orys. Flippantly, she tugged at the end of her silver braid. "My mother is no blushing maid either. You would do well to remember that."

"Nor are you, my lady," the maegi said mockingly, staring at Visenya's armor and the copper coils wound through her hair. 

She was irritated now. The most recurrent prophecy she received from the old hag was the one where Visenya herself would we Aegon- impossible now, given Rhaenys' wedding. Visenya had hoped since childhood to be married to Orys. He shared with her a particular mental affinity, a striking penchant for strategy and savagery, and a singular sort of grace to his reckless behaviours. She had always shed her various skins for him, showed a part of herself that was soft and vulnerable. When they had been young still, on Orys' sixteenth nameday, they had gone diving off the cliffs at Dragonstone. The sky had been a vivid azure expanse, knitted over with a quilt of dusty clouds. She could still feel her hair, reeking of salt and sun, and how they had lain naked together in a nook in the rocks. She remembered his silence, how he had suddenly rolled over and kissed her. He had called her lovely. Only Rhaenys was referred to as lovely in the castle. Visenya had known then that she was his, and he was hers.

"Come inside," said the old woman. She sounded more docile now, apologetic almost.

Visenya looked wistfully back at Vhagar and then walked into the hut where the magic danced like rain, tangible.

 

The sea embrued the shore furiously when she returned. Instead of storming into her chambers and undoing her braid, trying to look as though she'd been sleeping, she slipped to Orys' bedchamber and undressed.

"Orys," she said softly. Visenya was standing barefoot on the cold stone floor, creamy and smooth and naked, watching him fumble into a state of lucidity and blink.

When he saw her there his eyes widened. "Oh, gods. Senya. I thought you went to Essos..." he trailed off, drinking in her body lustfully with all its shape and grace.

She climbed on top of him so that they were separated by nothing but a sheet. "Think Aeg and Rhaenys have consummated their marriage tonight?"

"I told him to. I hope he wasn't too awkward."

"Do you think Father will let us marry?" she asked. The question slipped out uninvited, hanging between them like a poisonous veil. She wanted to pinch herself, assure herself that she had not spoken so rashly, and instead winced whilst waiting for a reply.

He grinned his beautiful crooked grin and sat up, his hand cupping her chin. "I hope so." He leaned towards her mouth and she caught his lips in hers, kissing with force, her delicate neck arching like a swan's, her body grinding hard against his. 

"I want you," she murmured. "I don't want anyone else. I don't want to wed Aeg, or some Velaryon, or anyone in the world but you."

"You have me," he said simply. "Is that not enough?"

She dove into the sheets and flipped onto her back, her powerful legs draped over his shoulders. He took her with one shuddering breath, and then his tongue found its way back into her mouth and she forgot that she was lady of Dragonstone, that she was a descendent of a powerful empire, that she was a girl who was strong and mouthy and that half the castle feared. It did not matter anymore. None of it mattered.

 

Visenya made her way to breakfast sheepishly, down the corridor and into the small nook where she met her siblings for breakfast.

"How did it feel to have your first woman, Aeg?" she said loudly en guise of an entrance, and then she paused, mortified on the steps.

In place of her siblings, Aerion Targaryen and Velena Velaryon sat complacently. They seemed completely unamused at her remarks, Velena looking as though she had barely slept herself. 

"Sit," ordered her father.

She obeyed. It was rare that he came to see her, and alone- this could mean a number of things, each as serious as the next. Perhaps they had learned she was being taught sorcery far across the Essossi continent. Perhaps they were going to marry her off to someone. Perhaps they wanted her to invade some far-off land as they'd often discussed, namely the Free Cities. Visenya waited, and her heart knocked on her ribs like a wild thing.

"You are a woman grown, Visenya," started Velena tentatively. "You are older than Rhaenys, and she is already married."

"You want me to get married?"

Aerion studied her. "Do you think you're ready for marriage? You've always been hostile to the idea, I know- Rhaenys has always had more of a grip on reality."

Visenya felt her face split into a smile of inexplicable joy. "Father- I am ready. I love him already, you will see how good I will be to him. Have you told Orys yet? I- I've loved him for years, Father, and this is just... the most wonderful of news. Thank you, thank you, thank you." She stood to embrace him, but now both Aerion and Velena were staring at her looking both shocked and embarrassed.

"You will not be wedding Orys," said Velena when the silence split. "You are a Targaryen! We would never dream of marrying you to a bastard. Much less the bastard of a lesser house."

Aerion cleared his throat. "Visenya, you will be wedding Aegon. He will need all the help he can get when he fulfills his duty as a conqueror, the father of a new age." She felt her face draining of color as he spoke. "Both you and Rhaenys know how to keep him in check. I'm sure you will prove to be a more than satisfactory wife."

"No," she whispered. "No, I could never... Do they know? How dare you keep this a secret? How dare you marry me to a man already married?"

"Family comes first, Visenya. It always has."

"Orys is my family, too."

"You will marry Aegon and that is the last I will hear of it!" bellowed Aerion Targaryen, his blotchy purple face the exact shade of his eyes. "You disappoint me, Visenya."

She wiped at her eyes impatiently. "I will never forgive you for this."

He simply scrutinized her like an animal made for slaughter. Visenya felt so belittled, so ashamed, so terribly cornered by those she had always expected to be capable of trusting. She spun on her heel and, scraping up the last of her dignity, marched out of the room and to the dragon pit.


End file.
